


Found

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and how he finds her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found

Elsie takes off her coat, hangs it mechanically on the coat rack. Removes her hat, takes the time to carefully shape it, brush it off, places it on the hat hook. A place for everything and everything in its place. Strips off her gloves, smooths the fingers, couples them and places them on the shelf. She concentrates very hard on these little chores, because if she concentrates hard enough, she won't think. She won't think about the boy they buried tonight, the boy who had claimed a little acreage in her life with his homesick heart and his cheerful grin and his need for his mother.

Compulsively, methodically, she begins to straighten her already tidy desk. Puts the receipts in a neat stack. Aligns the ledgers perfectly. Puts her pen back in the cup. Looks around for something else to do, anything. Goes to her bookshelf and begins to sort the books alphabetically — they are already sorted by author, she resorts them by title now. For want of something, anything. Just don't think about it. That's always been her way, ever since she was a girl.

Don't think about the way Da comes home drunk and slings his fists around.

Don't think about Mam's fragile smile the next morning as she served breakfast to a silent table.

Don't think about it.

It's always served her well and she goes right back to it because why fix what isn't broken?

Don't think about how William had been a ray of sunshine in the day.

Don't think about what a brave boy he was, going off to war with all of his young courage gathered up in frightened hands.

Don't think about it.

Her hands move in very careful measured movements, very precise, and if she can just have the night to herself, to go through these robotic rituals, she will not fall apart. She had intentionally slipped away from everyone and she does not want to be sought out, does not want to be found. If she can just be lost in this house for a while, if she can just lose herself in something cold, something practical, something she doesn't care about, she will not think about it.

There's a soft knock on her door and he lets himself in; he always does, she does the same, they are long past the need for invitation. Long past the need to stand on ceremony. She doesn't look up, doesn't rise from her kneeling position. She cares for him — loves him if she is honest — but she does not want him here. Not right now. He is not something cold, something practical. He is not something that she does not care about.

"Mr. Carson, is there something you wanted?"

She can sense his presence, though she has yet to look at him. Can feel his big, solid body waiting patiently for her to properly acknowledge him. Elsie bites her lip hard, harder, shoves another book onto the shelf.

"Mr. Carson, if there's nothing you need, I'm really very busy, I — "

He doesn't answer, just wraps his hand around her elbow and pulls her up, pulls her into his arms, holds her. Holds her tighter when her eyes tear, when the tears begin streaking down and she is pulling roughly at his jacket, his shirt, pushing him back against the wall so he is trapped between it and her body and she's undressing him now and the tears are still raining down silently giving her face a glassy, icy appearance. He says nothing, just continuously wipes them away with the soft pads of his thumbs as she removes his jacket and begins to unbutton his shirt.

He knew exactly how to come to her, exactly what she'd need for once. But then, really, who else but him would know? Who else would know that she had loved the boy, thought of him sometimes as her own? That she stole a vicarious moment of motherhood here and there?

Carson leans there against the wall and lets her slide her hands over his chest, shove the interfering material out of the way. His face is a tight, hard mask of restraint as he stifles his sounds, delays his desires, lets her take what she needs, lets her direct this.

Doesn't make her think about it.

She doesn't. She just wants to be lost in his skin and his warmth and his hardness and not think about it. She wants the waiting between them to finally be over, to let it at least serve a purpose now by ending here, tonight. Wants to fill the hole left in her heart with this man and his deep voice and his big hands and his firm shoulders. Elsie presses hot, open mouth kisses over his stomach, his nipples, licks and sucks the salt from his skin. A small sound escapes his throat and she smiles, a hard diamond smile.

She can't fall apart, but he can. She can make him. She can watch him crack and crumble and shatter and it'll be lovely, a fine beautiful thing to see that. Better than sobbing until she's sick, until she falls asleep in a single bed with a raw throat and swollen eyes.

Her tears are still falling, checked only by those caring, tender fingers.

He doesn't question anything, doesn't suggest anything. Just lets her do what she will with him and wipes her tears. Her fingers are unfastening his belt, opening his trousers and he drops his head back, closes his eyes. She watches him. Smiles that dangerous smile as her fingers crawl slowly down his chest, his stomach, as they follow the sparse trail of hair below his waistband.

Lower.

And yes, now, now she will not think about it because all she can think about is the sudden wetness between her legs and the hard hot weight of him in her hand and the tortured gasps he's making as her fingertips slide delicately around and over, caressing carefully, thoroughly. He is watching her face now, clenching his teeth, his jaw against the moans, pushing his shoulders against the unyielding wall to stop himself from moving. Lets her have it how she will.

"Mr. Carson." Her voice is ragged and she pulls her fingers away, exhales hard when a moan of protest escapes his lips. Elsie takes his hand, leads him to her armchair where she sits, pushes off her pumps, leans back in the chair, slouches there. He stands, watching her speculatively with his shadowed eyes. He still does not speak.

"Here." Her voice is softer, more loving, and she slides her hips forward a bit, pulls her skirts up, up, and his breathing is harder, more ragged as she lets her knees fall open, as she slips her slender fingers between her legs, parts the soft cotton slit of her underwear, exposes her sex. "Here." He kneels, then, pushes his clothing out of the way. Hooks his hands under her thighs and shoves into her, doesn't hold back for the sake of timing or rhythm but simply strokes into her hard, harder and her arms raise as she twists her hands to grip the back of the chair and she can't keep back the harsh moans, the angry pleas, the profanities as she takes it, over and over again. As he gives her what she needs, as he gives her a way to not think about it.

Her tears fall, still, but he has known her for so long, and they say so much with so little, that he knows not to stop, not to be gentle, not to be slow, but to fill her, to make her feel only him so she doesn't have to feel anything else. Carson leans forward, presses his mouth to her cheeks, lovingly licks away the evidence of her crying. Thrusts harder.

She is jerking her hips against him now, heaving, undulating, groaning her pleasure as she takes him deep, deeper, as he pushes and pushes until she's filled with him, stretched, has taken him completely inside, has taken thrust after thrust until she is riding out her climax with a shuddering, sobbing, gasping convulsion of muscle and nerve and heart, until her frantic small screams have tapered into torn, shaking sounds of submission, of finality. He finds his release soon after with her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her lips pressed against his brow.

They lay there, she spilling out of the chair, him pouring over her until they can both breathe again. Until the the hard floor is too hard and the awkward angle of her back too awkward. Slowly, they untangle, find their own bodies again, replace clothing, fasten buttons. He stands and stretches out his back. Rolls his sleeves up, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. Looks down at her, leans over and carefully — so carefully, places a gentle kiss on her forehead, one on her cheek, one on her lips. He straightens and finally speaks, gestures toward her tea set.

"A cup of tea wouldn't go amiss."

She rises then, tentatively, tests her legs. She'll be sore in the morning, very sore, and so will he, but she can't be bothered to mind. Elsie smiles at him a bit shyly now; she's not sure what to say, how to say it. Thank you? Thank you for knowing me, for knowing what I needed, how I needed it? Thank you for always being here? I love you?

In the end, she says the only thing she can say.

"No, no, it wouldn't. And Mr. Carson? I'm glad you found me."


End file.
